


Des Cauchemars

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his disastrous trip, Hastings suffers from nightmares; however, he is reluctant to speak to Poirot about his fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Des Cauchemars

**Author's Note:**

> Series: Set just after _Persephone_. You should read that before reading this.
> 
> Note: I needed to tie up some loose ends in the previous fic, and I couldn't leave well enough alone.

The metallic hollow rumble woke me from my troubled sleep. Poirot was behind me, one of his arms loosely covering my torso and his stomach pressed against my back; I could tell from his even breaths and untroubled expression that he was deep in sleep. I, on the other hand, was trembling and restless. I carefully slipped out from beneath his arm, and dressed in my discarded pajamas.

I stood in the sitting room, remembering the black cloth that covered the windows and the mirrors. The sickening sweet perfume from the flowers still lingered in my nose, and the cloying despair nearly convinced me to turn on the lamps. Instead, I retreated to my old bedroom, and turned on a lamp there, closing the door behind me.

It had been a week since my return from Argentina and my two narrow escapes from death. What remained of my bruises had healed, but I was still pale and my nightmares were growing worse. I suspected that if I were to speak to Poirot about my fears, it would aid me greatly – for we had spoken little after the night of my return – but I loathed the argument that would follow and Poirot's insistence that he had been right all along.

I looked around the room, seeing it as a stranger might. Knickknacks and mementos, all the trinkets that I had saved from my travels, comforted me. I had traveled many times, many times before I had come to live with Poirot, and I had experienced no serious problems. I wanted to travel back to Argentina and to reclaim my farm, but knew that this would be impossible until after matters with Germany were settled. I would also have to convince Poirot, who I suspected would do almost anything to keep me from leaving.

"Hastings?"

I had been so deep in my thoughts that I had not heard the door open. Poirot's voice made me jump, and I turned around from where I was seated on the bed. When I saw Poirot, I smiled my relief, and said, "I'm sorry. I came in here because I did not wish to disturb your sleep."

Poirot smiled back, but I could see the worry in his eyes. "I would rather you disturb my sleep, _mon ami_ ," he said, sitting down next to me.

"Well," I said, taking his hand in mine, "I needed time to think as well."

"About?" Poirot said.

"The farm," I replied. "I need to take possession of it again." At Poirot's alarmed look, I hastily added, "Oh, not now, but eventually."

Poirot shook his head, and said, "It does no good to speak of such things so soon after what happened."

I sighed, and lapsed into silence. Poirot stroked my hand with both of his, his agitation clear in his movements. His touch was soothing; his blunt, well-manicured fingers contrasted against my pale skin. It was a contrast that I enjoyed, but it also reminded me that we were two different, strong-willed men, and I would not be cowered.

"The farm is my achievement, Poirot," I said softly. "I created it by myself… without the assistance of my family… without you. I am very proud of it."

"As you should be, yes, but it is not an achievement for which you should endanger yourself. There is other land, other countries."

"I know, love, but this is the one I built."

Poirot nodded, his expression the same as if he were grudgingly accepting evidence that contradicted his deductions. After a brief silence, he said, "I regret never seeing your farm."

"I regret never being able to show it off to you," I said, smiling slightly. I remembered our last moments before the train pulled away, and added softly, "I apologize for thinking that you had reneged on your promise to visit."

Poirot shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I understand why you thought so, Hastings. Do not trouble yourself over it any further."

"You forgive me?"

"Of course, _mon cher_."

The sincerity in his voice was clear, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Poirot embraced me, and I rested my head on his shoulder, taking great comfort from his arms.

 

The dream returned the following night, but it was much worse. In it I had taken the Persephone, and when the torpedo hit, I was trapped in the ship, unable to free myself. I woke to the sensation of drowning, and after a few seconds of blind panic I realized that I was standing naked next to our bed. Poirot was blinking the sleep from his eyes, his gaze confused and worried.

"Hastings?"

"Go back to bed, Poirot," I said. "I shall be better directly."

I did not bother with pajamas, but instead put on my dressing gown and went into the sitting room. Closing myself away in my bedroom seemed like a terrible idea, and so I sat down on the settee, clutching at the cloth around my neck.

Poirot came out of the bedroom, dressed neatly in pajamas and dressing gown, and said softly, "What is it?"

"Nothing, Poirot," I replied, dizzy from the fast pace of my heart.

"Arthur," he said, sitting down next to me and taking my hand. "The nightmares, they grow worse each day. Soon you will not sleep at all. Tell me what troubles you."

I closed my eyes, remembering my dream and the horror. "It is silly, Hercule, a silly melodrama." I could not admit that I feared he would think my nightmares ridiculous and childish.

"You do not trust me?" Poirot asked, seeming to mirror with his question my greatest fear.

"I do, I do, but they are silly imaginings," I replied, my grip tightening on his hand.

Poirot cupped my cheek in his other hand, and turned my face so that we were looking at each other. "You nearly died, Arthur!" he said, his voice firm and almost angry. I tried to flinch away, but he held me firm. "I thought you were dead, and I cried for days. Do you think that I would ridicule your dreams now that you have returned?"

"No," I whispered, my tears scattering down my cheeks. "But I am scared, Hercule, so scared."

His expression softened, and he pulled me close. We were both trembling; I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and said softly, "I love you so much. I nearly lost you."

Poirot nodded, his soothing hands stroking my back. "I love you, too, my friend."

We were silent for a time until I finally said, "Tonight I was on the Persephone. She had been hit by the torpedo, and I couldn't get out. The cabin was filling with water. I couldn't-" I stopped, and pressed my mouth to his shoulder.

He rocked me gently in his arms, cooing softly as I cried. I turned my head towards his neck, and whispered, "I still hear their screams. I wanted to help, but I could do nothing, Poirot, nothing but watch them drown. Women and children…"

His arms tightened around me, and one of his hands reached up to stroke my hair. "I know, Hastings, but there was nothing for you to do. You are not at fault."

I sniffled, and my arms tightened around him. "I felt- I felt guilty – I still do – because while they were dying, I could only think of myself and how I would be able to see you again. They had husbands, brothers, fathers of their own, and I-"

Poirot gently took my face jaw in his hands, and looking into my eyes, he said softly, "Your guilt is honorable but misplaced. Do you not think that I, too, thank the _bon dieu_ that you are safe and that somehow you returned to me? Many people died, Hastings, but you survived, you whom I love more than anyone else in the world. I do not think of your life as a mistake or as a burden but as a beautiful gift."

I was stunned by his words, and my tears fell fast at his words. "How can you love me so much?" I asked.

"I do not know," Poirot replied, a slight laugh to his voice.

I smiled despite my tears, and leaned forward to kiss him, deepening the kiss as we sought a confirmation of our words. When we parted, I debated whether I should mention what else bothered me. At Poirot's curious look, I said, "I am worried, too, that I shall no longer wish to travel… that I shall fear what I used to love."

Poirot took my hand in his once more and said, "Perhaps you will be scared, Hastings, but your wanderlust will ensure that you continue to travel after this."

I was not so sure about his words, but he had been right before. Reluctantly I said, "You were right that I should not have travelled."

Poirot nodded, but rather than confirm his correctness he said softly, "I wish that I had not been so."

He kissed me gently, his hand in my hair holding me firmly against him. I slid the belt of his dressing gown from its knot, and reached through the cloth of his pajamas to stroke his bare stomach. He moaned softly, and pulled away. "To bed, Hastings."

I made to rise, but then stopped myself. "No, here," I replied. Before he could ask why, I said, "All I can remember now in the sitting room is our fight, black cloth, and decay."

Poirot studied my face for a few moments, and then nodded. One of his hands stroked my chin, guiding me down to receive his kiss. We remained for some time kissing, letting the passion build. When I felt his lips curve into a smile, I pulled back to ask what amused him. He pressed a finger to my lips before I could speak, and then used that same finger to bare my chest and shoulders, his movements sure and determined.

He did not remove my robe fully, but rather he reached underneath the cloth to pull me close. He kissed down my neck, making liberal use of his teeth and moustache to scrape at my skin. I murmured my approval, hands stroking his hair and his back. When he reached my shoulder, he became more firm in the use of his teeth, never hard enough to leave a mark but enough to make me shiver with pleasure.

I gently drew his attention back to my lips, and as we kissed I shrugged off my dressing down, leaving it to drape against the settee. I stroked his skin through the silk of his pajamas, admiring their fine quality and the heat beneath the fabric. He moaned when I found his shaft, stiff and eager for my touch. I searched through his trousers, and drew him out. I smiled at Poirot, and gave him a light kiss before bending down to take him into my mouth. He moaned helplessly, his hand coming up to stroke my hair. I bobbed my head up and down, humming appreciatively. I stroked his sac through the fabric, wanting to give him every pleasure, and could not stop my smile when I heard him shout in French.

I reluctantly pulled away when his hands on my shoulders directed me up. We resumed kissing, now desperate for each other. He stood, but before I could become disappointed, he took my hands and led me to his desk. My fantasy was about to be fulfilled.

I had hoped for this moment for a long time, since before we had become lovers. Before my disastrous trip, I had left in one of his drawers an innocent bottle of unscented lotion as a hint that I was losing patience. He had laughed at the time, and kissed me playfully.

His expression now was serious, his eyes dark with lust, and cheeks flushed with pleasure. He moved a few items on his desk to one side, and then invited me to sit on the edge. We kissed again, and I assisted him with the removal of his pajamas. His skin was softer than any silk, and more precious due to the life it held. I told him as much, and he kissed me harder, his strong hands firm against my back.

" _Mon cher_ , you are the poet," he said softly, kissing my jaw.

"You inspire me, my love," I replied. I would have been embarrassed under any other circumstance, but the delight in his eyes and his sincere response eased my natural reticence.

Poirot leaned forward as he kissed me, directing me to lie flat on his desk. He began to kiss down my body, using his teeth once more to scrape at my skin. I rested my hands on his smooth shoulders, encouraging him every so often with a firm stroke of his chest, tangling my fingers in the crisp, dark hair on his chest.

He took the lotion from its drawer, and began to prepare me, nipping at my stomach. When he brushed his fingers against my shaft, I shook my head. I answered his questioning look by saying, "If you touch me, I- I will release right now."

Poirot looked intrigued, and said, "Perhaps it is necessary so that you may enjoy what follows."

He was right. I had not thought through all the logistics of making love on a desk.

I nodded, and he took me into his mouth, his fingers thrusting faster and deeper. I leaned back and grasped the edge of his desk, unsuccessfully muffling all of my cries. When I felt that ultimate pleasure, my back arched and I cried out, head thrown back. I watched the ceiling, needing something anchor myself or else I might float away.

"Good lord, Hercule," I said, coming back to myself.

" _C'est exquis, mon beau_ Arthur," Poirot replied, kissing me tenderly on the mouth. "Turn around," he murmured, his hands on my hips.

I turned, and after a few adjustments due to height difference, I rested on his desk, my hands still gripping the edge. Poirot pressed in, his movements slow and gentle.

I sighed softly when I felt ready, and Poirot began a leisurely pace, his stomach brushing against my back with each stroke. I leaned up on my elbows so that I could push back and so that I could feel more of his body against mine.

His thrusts grew harder and faster, and I moaned in approval as his teeth scraped my back. His kisses soothed any burn, and when he asked me if this is what I had wanted, I nodded.

"Please," I whispered. "Oh please. Make me forget, forget everything but you."

" _Avec plaisir, mon brave, mon_ Arthur," he whispered in return. His thrusts grew faster and deeper as he whispered his love for me, possessive words that I might have balked at had I not been drunk from pleasure.

I let his words fill me, wash through me. I saw the sitting room from my new vantage point. We had fought in this very room, yes, and I had seen it festooned with offerings to the dead; but we had made love in this room many times both physically but also with a glance or a surreptitious touch. We had flirted in this room, argued, learned more about each other, and fallen even more deeply in love. We became best friends, the half of each other's souls, in this room, and even if we had not come together in love, this wholeness would have been the result.

"Oh god," I whispered, feeling completely shattered.

Poirot's arms came around me, his hands covering my clenched fists. He whispered for permission, and at my nod, he released within me.

We lay panting on the desk, still shuddering from the pleasure. When eventually he pulled out of me, I moaned softly, grateful for the pleasure and regretful at the loss. He encouraged me to sit, and we embraced, shaking and weak.

To think that I might never have experienced this pleasure again made me shudder. To never again know the arms of Hercule Poirot? No farm, no dream, would be worth such a loss. I would find a way to regain my independence, but I would not sacrifice my love for such a quest. I could have both; I knew it. I just had to figure out how.

I kissed him, and something in my expression must have given away my thoughts because Poirot looked exceptionally pleased with himself. "You are better, _mon_ Arthur."

"Yes, I am, _mon_ Hercule," I replied, smiling at him. "Thank you," I replied, the words an inadequate way to express my gratitude and love for him. "Thank you for fulfilling my fantasy." I laughed, and added, "I shall not be able to look at your desk now without blushing."

Poirot laughed with equal merriment, and said, "I shall be unable to sit behind it without remembering." When I reached for the lotion, intending to move it to a more appropriate place now that my wish had been granted, Poirot took up the lotion and replaced it in the drawer. "A reminder and a promise, _mon cher_."

He laughed at my delighted expression, and kissed me. "Now, to bed."

He rearranged his desk as I picked up our clothes. We retired to bed, naked and still eager to embrace after our love making.

 

My dreams did not magically disappear, but they grew less in frequency until I was once more able to sleep with my usual appreciativeness. Our friends were relieved when normalcy returned. Japp commented that I looked more myself, and Ms. Lemon said that I no longer looked like a ghost. I had not realized how dearly they held me as a friend until after I nearly lost them. I appreciated their regard for me, as siblings should feel for each other, and I cherished their support.

This newfound regard was even more important as our world was about to change in more ways that we could have ever expected.

On the 3rd of September England and France declared war on Germany.


End file.
